


bright light living in the shade (EDITED VERSION - READ NOTE)

by mirandastylinson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (｡◕‿◕｡), Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Eating Disorder, Eating Disorders, Eating disorder!harry, M/M, Model, Model!Harry, but a lovely piece of poo, louis is a piece of poo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 20:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2553917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirandastylinson/pseuds/mirandastylinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry is a model with an eating disorder and louis is a bit of a dick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bright light living in the shade (EDITED VERSION - READ NOTE)

**Author's Note:**

> hello pumpkin pies. (｡◕‿◕｡) this is what is meant to be a chaptered fic and elsewhere on my archive i have the full, unedited version of this fic, albeit much longer. i wrote this for my creative writing a level and as it had to be handed into my teacher i can hardly say the full version was fit for teacher-appropriateness. this is a one shot, no other chapters will be written, as i am only writing one chapter for my coursework. i thought i would post this as you may want to read some of my coursework which i submit!

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks. Cheers.”

She has the gleam in her eye that means she wants more, knows she’ll get more, but will save herself until the end of the night – when nobody is around to see her walls drop, for the frame she guards around herself to fall into a mix of broken shards.

It makes Harry want to throw up.

So he does.

The chair screeches against the wooden flooring as he flies out of his seat, the kind that grinds your teeth and locks your jaw, pouring himself into the nearest cubicle and slamming it behind him. 

It takes less than a second for him to stick two fingers down his throat, his earlier meal spilling into the toilet. He keeps pressing them down until only acid is coming up and dripping from his nose, sparse droplets of blood within the mix. He’s silent, which is the only thing he lets himself be proud of, his body only shaking slightly from the shock.  
But it’s not really a shock when you make yourself throw up various times a day.

Fumbling for his phone, fingers wiping chunks of food against his jeans, Harry dials the number which has been engraved into his mind ever since he was tripping over footballs and grazing his knees.

It only rings once.

“How’s it going, mate?”

“Don’t – oh, God, I don’t think I can do this, Zayn. It’s too much, please, God –” 

“Harry, you need to calm down, what’s gotten into you? You were fine before you left this morning.”

Harry runs a hand down his face, shaking his head at both himself and Zayn. His curls spring out, fanning across his forehead. “No, Zayn. It’s all too much. They changed the rota and decided they want me, bloody me, to be the first to walk down the catwalk and there’s going to be talent scouts there and oh, God –“ 

“Listen to me, Harry. You’re a bloody amazing model and anyone who doesn’t see that is blind. I promise.”

Despite Zayn’s words having meant to be reassuring, Harry can’t find an outlet to allow them to calm him. There’s graffiti scribbled all over the cubicle wall, words scratched from failed attempts of removing it, and he wonders how people find the time to do their business as well as pencil their thoughts. He wants to write meaningful quotes he will never believe himself.

Picking at the hem of his shirt, Harry notices a puddle his shoes are almost submerged in. It’s definitely not water by the smell of it. Harry hates himself. “But I’m not, am I?”

“You are, I already promised that you are, please listen to me, you’re such a bloody –”

He doesn’t want to hear anymore. 

Harry rolls his eyes, hanging up the phone and stuffing it back into his pocket, pushing the heel of his palm against his eyes; his vision began to cloud over black, specks of colour merging through. 

He waits a few minutes before gaining the courage to leave the cubicle, head peeking around the door after unlocking it swiftly. Straightening his heart-printed shirt, Harry inhales shakily and dares a glance at his reflection. Blots of red are scattered across his cheeks, eyes blood-shot with bags heavy under them. There’s drool hanging from his lips, but Harry only wipes it off with the back of his hand before heading back outside with knocking knees. 

*

There’s a boy standing backstage behind the curtain, seeming content in his own company. Harry hadn’t noticed him before, too submerged in himself and focusing on the way he was going to present himself on stage. His fingers drum on the table nervously as he waits for his makeup to be done, scratches littering the fading wood, bringing his lip between his teeth. Rising from his seat, deciding to take the chance, the heel of Harry’s boot taps heavily against the tiles as he makes his way over to the stranger.

A woman passing by offers him a drink, to which Harry accepts with shaking hands. The liquid is spilling over the brim, coating his fingers and dripping into the lines etched into his skin. A sudden burst of confidence erupts through him, clearing his throat softly as he tries to put on his most charming smile.

It looks like a mix between pain and constipation, but. 

“Hey, I’m Harry. Do you work here?”

The boy looks up from beneath his fringe, sipping his wine with a brow cocked. He shakes his head once, short, before taking his attention elsewhere.  
“Are you sure?” Harry scratches the back of his neck, persistent, the sudden urge to tear his flesh apart spiralling across every inch of him. “It’s just that you’re not allowed backstage unless you work here and are wearing blue.”

Once again, the boy looks up at Harry. The wine is almost finished, but he still doesn’t bother to answer in a polite manner. He gestures to his clothes instead; a plain, white shirt with black, skinny jeans.

They look more like leggings, really. But they’re not blue, so.

“Okay, um. I’m sorry. It’s just that we don’t allow fans backstage.”

With a heavy blink, the boy takes the glass away from his lips and sets it down on the table beside him. “I’m really sorry that I can’t help you, Harry.”

Harry can tell that he’s not sorry at all, voice laced with sarcasm. He pings at the elastic band on his wrist relentlessly. “Okay, erm. Sorry. Again. Um.”

The boy pouts his lips, arms crossed against his chest, brow raised challengingly. “Are you always this coherent when speaking?”

It takes a moment for Harry to fully understand what the boy is saying, fingers locked together behind his back. “Um,” he begins again, blunt nails digging into his palms, broad shoulders hunched over consciously. Harry’s voice softens, fiddling with his sleeve. The buttons are worn despite being new, the result of Harry’s constant anxiety scratching at the thin layer of metal. “No?”

He hears a sigh, one which is screaming boredom. There’s an uncomfortable stirring in his stomach, and the cutlery on the table seems perfect for sticking down his throat.

He can’t, though.

“Do you, erm, always do this? Be this mean to the models? ” He’s trying to act like he’s not fazed, but the slight crack in Harry’s voice gives him away.

“Well,” The boy shrugs, like there isn’t an inch of guilt running through him. “A lot of models are dicks.”

Harry’s eyes widen, the previous anxiety floating away. His nails have broken the skin, droplets of blood falling from his palms. “Well, thanks.” 

The boy rolls his eyes, jaw locking as his pout becomes more prominent. “I didn’t mean you.” His tone is irritated, hip jotted out as he looks down at his nails, clearing his throat gently.

“It’s fine, like, whatever.” Harry takes a sip of his drink, purposely avoiding the boy’s gaze. He feels inferior, limbs pressed together in an effort to make himself smaller, the other standing tall and confident despite Harry having a few more inches on him. Harry raises trembling fingers to the bridge of his nose. 

“You don’t look like a model.”

A bitter laugh escapes Harry’s lips. “I know.”

“Just,” The boy waves his hand around in the air, hoping his point will come across clearer. “Just don’t wear the heart-print with a tie. It makes you look like you model for Primark.”

Harry looks down at his shirt, brows furrowing as his finger traces over the pattern. His thumb is bleeding from where he ripped the skin off, and he pushes down on the cut with his finger to apply pressure. “This is Prada.”

A heavy, loud groan manages to fill the room despite there being a dull buzz of chatter, and Harry peers up to find the boy with his head thrown back against the wall. “I – Look, okay.” He runs a small hand through his fine hair, taking a second to compose himself. “I’m not even going to list the reasons why that shirt is definitely not Prada.”

Peering up from beneath his fringe, Harry juts out his bottom lip as he nods slowly. His cheeks begin to redden, the blush falling down to his neck. He can feel his eyes welling up, the humiliation consuming him and scraping against his skin teasingly. “Well, okay.” He continues to nod, not quite sure when to stop, not understanding what’s so wrong with his shirt that it doesn’t look like Prada. “Thanks for telling me anyway.”

His head drops to the floor again, nails digging into his jeans and pulling at a loose string. There are holes scattered across his jeans from where he’s had to release his anxiety by scratching at the fabric, unable to scar places he wishes to in public. 

The sound of a throat being cleared draws Harry out of his morbidity, gaze focusing on the boy falling into the chair opposite him. His elbow is resting on the table, chin perched in his hand, looking at Harry with the same judgmental gaze. Harry blinks for a few solid moments, eyes wide and doe-like. His lips part before he closes them again. Itching at his nose, he tears off a nail behind his back. 

There’s a long pause within conversation, the boy watching intently while Harry focuses on the deep scar etched into the table. It begins as just a scratch, soon forming a harsh wound before disappearing off the edge. Harry stares at the boy for a long moment, chest tightening, body slumping, eyes cast downwards, and lips pursed. Blood is trickling down his palm from where he’s ripped off another nail, pooling along his life line. 

“Louis, by the way.” The sudden sound lifts Harry’s posture up, drawing him out of his loathing, eyes blinking heavily. “My name is Louis.”

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and bookmarks sunshine and kisses are appreciated!! ◕‿◕
> 
> my tumblr is zouisstylinson.tumblr.com if you’re interested in talking to me because sometimes i don’t always reply to comments even though i love you all with my heart :(


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